sk.thetalisman-第57节

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　saw　the　police　cruiser　slide　slowly　by。
　　The　blind　man　was　in　the　back　seat；　the　neck　of　his　guitar　poking　up　beside　him。
　　As　the　cruiser　swung　into　one　of　the　outbound　lanes；　the　blind　man　abruptly　turned　his　head　and　looked　out　the　back　window；　looked　directly　at　Jack　。　。　。
　　。　。　。　and　although　Jack　could　not　see　through　the　dirty　dark　glasses；　he　knew　perfectly　well　that　Lester　'Speedy'　Parker　had　winked　at　him。
　　　
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　　Jack　managed　to　keep　further　thought　at　bay　until　he　reached　the　turnpike　ramps　again。　He　stood　looking　at　the　signs；　which　seemed　the　only　clear…cut　things　left　in　a　world
　　（worlds？）　
　　where　all　else　was　a　maddening　gray　swirl。　He　felt　a　dark　depression　swirling　all　around　him；　sinking　into　him；　trying　to　destroy　his　resolve。　He　recognized　that　homesickness　played　a　part　in　this　depression；　but　this　feeling　made　his　former　homesickness　seem　boyish　and　callow　indeed。　He　felt　utterly　adrift；　without　a　single　firm　thing　to　hold　on　to。
　　Standing　by　the　signs；　watching　the　traffic　on　the　turnpike；　Jack　realized　he　felt　damn　near　suicidal。　For　quite　a　while　he　had　been　able　to　keep　himself　going　with　the　thought　that　he　would　see　Richard　Sloat　soon　（and；　although　he　had　hardly　admitted　the　thought　to　himself；　the　idea　that　Richard　might　head　west　with　him　had　done　more　than　cross　Jack's　mind…after　all；　it　would　not　be　the　first　time　that　a　Sawyer　and　a　Sloat　had　made　strange　journeys　together；　would　it？）；　but　the　hard　work　at　the　Palamountain　farm　and　the　peculiar　happenings　at　the　Buckeye　Mall　had　given　even　that　the　false　glitter　of　fool's　gold。
　　Go　home；　Jacky；　you're　beaten；　a　voice　whispered。　If　you　keep　on；　you're　going　to　end　up　getting　the　living　shit　kicked　out　of　you　。　。　。　and　next　time　it　may　be　fifty　people　that　die。　Or　five　hundred。
　　I…70　East。　
　　I…70　West。
　　Abruptly　he　fished　in　his　pocket　for　the　coin…the　coin　that　was　a　silver　dollar　in　this　world。　Let　whatever　gods　there　were　decide　this；　once　and　for　all。　He　was　too　beaten　to　do　it　for　himself。　His　back　still　smarted　where　Mr。　All…America　had　whacked　him。　e　up　tails；　and　he　would　go　down　the　eastbound　ramp　and　head　home。　e　up　heads；　he　would　go　on　。　。　。　and　there　would　be　no　more　looking　back。
　　He　stood　in　the　dust　of　the　soft　shoulder　and　flicked　the　coin　into　the　chilly　October　air。　It　rose；　turning　over　and　over；　kicking　up　glints　of　sun。　Jack　craned　his　head　to　follow　its　course。
　　
　　A　family　passing　in　an　old　station…wagon　stopped　squabbling　long　enough　to　look　at　him　curiously。　The　man　driving　the　wagon；　a　balding　C。P。A。　who　sometimes　awoke　in　the　middle　of　the　night　fancying　that　he　could　feel　shooting　pains　in　his　chest　and　down　his　left　arm；　had　a　sudden　and　absurd　series　of　thoughts：　Adventure。　Danger。　A　quest　of　some　noble　purpose。　Dreams　of　fear　and　glory。　He　shook　his　head；　as　if　to　clear　it；　and　glanced　at　the　boy　in　the　wagon's　rear…view　mirror　just　as　the　kid　leaned　over　to　look　at　something。　Christ；　the　balding　C。P。A。　thought。　Get　it　out　of　your　head；　Larry；　you　sound　like　a　fucking　boys'　adventure　book。
　　Larry　shot　into　traffic；　quickly　getting　the　wagon　up　to　seventy；　forgetting　about　the　kid　in　the　dirty　jeans　by　the　side　of　the　road。　If　he　could　get　home　by　three；　he'd　be　in　good　time　to　watch　the　middleweight　title　fight　on　ESPN。
　　
　　The　coin　came　down。　Jack　bent　over　it。　It　was　heads　。　。　。　but　that　was　not　all。
　　The　lady　on　the　coin　wasn't　Lady　Liberty。　It　was　Laura　DeLoessian；　Queen　of　the　Territories。　But　God；　what　a　difference　here　from　the　pale；　still；　sleeping　face　he　had　glimpsed　for　a　moment　in　the　pavillion；　surrounded　by　anxious　nurses　in　their　billowing　white　wimples！　This　face　was　alert　and　aware；　eager　and　beautiful。　It　was　not　a　classic　beauty；　the　line　of　the　jaw　was　not　clear　enough　for　that；　and　the　cheekbone　which　showed　in　profile　was　a　little　soft。　Her　beauty　was　in　the　regal　set　of　her　head　bined　with　the　clear　sense　that　she　was　kind　as　well　as　capable。
　　And　oh　it　was　so　like　the　face　of　his　mother。
　　Jack's　eyes　blurred　with　tears　and　he　blinked　them　hard；　not　wanting　the　tears　to　fall。　He　had　cried　enough　for　one　day。　He　had　his　answer；　and　it　was　not　for　crying　over。
　　When　he　opened　his　eyes　again；　Laura　DeLoessian　was　gone；　the　woman　on　the　coin　was　Lady　Liberty　again。
　　He　had　his　answer　all　the　same。
　　Jack　bent　over；　picked　up　the　coin　out　of　the　dust；　put　it　in　his　pocket；　and　headed　down　the　westbound　ramp　of　Interstate　70。
　　　
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　　A　day　later；　white　overcast　in　the　air　that　tasted　of　chilly　rain　on　its　way；　the　Ohio…Indiana　border　not　much　more　than　a　lick　and　a　promise　from　here。
　　'Here'　was　in　a　scrub　of　woods　beyond　the　Lewisburg　rest　area　on　I…70。　Jack　was　standing　concealed…he　hoped…among　the　trees；　patiently　waiting　for　the　large　bald　man　with　the　large　bald　voice　to　get　back　into　his　Chevy　Nova　and　drive　away。　Jack　hoped　he　would　go　soon；　before　it　started　to　rain。　He　was　cold　enough　without　getting　wet；　and　all　morning　his　sinuses　had　been　plugged；　his　voice　foggy。　He　thought　he　must　finally　be　getting　a　cold。
　　The　large　bald　man　with　the　large　bald　voice　had　given　his　name　as　Emory　W。　Light。　He　had　picked　Jack　up　around　eleven　o'clock；　north　of　Dayton；　and　Jack　had　felt　a　tired　sinking　sensation　in　the　pit　of　his　belly　almost　at　once。　He　had　gotten　rides　with　Emory　W。　Light　before。　In　Vermont　Light　had　called　himself　Tom　Ferguson；　and　said　he　was　a　shoe…shop　foreman；　in　Pennsylvania　the　alias　had　been　Bob　Dar…rent　（'Almost　like　that　fellow　who　sang　'Splish…Splash；'　ah…ha…hah…hah'）；　and　the　job　had　changed　to　District　High　School　Superintendent；　this　time　Light　said　he　was　President　of　the　First　Mercantile　Bank　of　Paradise　Falls；　in　the　town　of　Paradise　Falls；　Ohio。　Ferguson　had　been　lean　and　dark；　Dar…rent　as　portly　and　pink　as　a　freshly　tubbed　baby；　and　this　Emory　W。　Light　was　large　and　owlish；　with　eyes　like　boiled　eggs　behind　his　rimless　glasses。
　　Yet　all　of　these　differences　were　only　superficial；　Jack　had　found。　They　all　listened　to　the　Story　with　the　same　breathless　interest。　They　all　asked　him　if　he　had　had　any　girlfriends　back　home。　Sooner　or　later　he　would　find　a　hand　（a　large　bald　hand）　lying　on　his　thigh；　and　when　he　looked　at　Ferguson/Darrent/Light；　he　would　see　an　expression　of　half…mad　hope　in　the　eyes　（mixed　with　half…mad　guilt）　and　a　stipple　of　sweat　on　the　upper　lip　（in　the　case　of　Darrent；　the　sweat　had　gleamed　through　a　dark　moustache　like　tiny　white　eyes　peering　through　scant　underbrush）。
　　Ferguson　had　asked　him　if　he　would　like　to　make　ten　dollars。
　　Darrent　had　upped　that　to　twenty。
　　Light；　in　a　large　bald　voice　that　nonetheless　cracked　and　quivered　through　several　registers；　asked　him　if　he　couldn't　use　fifty　dollars…he　always　kept　a　fifty　in　the　heel　of　his　left　shoe；　he　said；　and　he'd　just　love　to　give　it　to　Master　Lewis　Farren。　There　was　a　place　they　could　go　near　Randolph。　An　empty　barn。
　　Jack　did　not　make　any　correlation　between　the　steadily　increasing　monetary　offers　from　Light　in　his　various　incarnations　and　any　changes　his　adventures　might　be　working　on　him…he　was　not　introspective　by　nature　and　had　little　interest　in　self…analysis。
　　He　had　learned　quickly　enough　how　to　deal　with　fellows　like　Emory　W。　Light。　His　first　experience　with　Light；　when　Light　had　been　calling　himself　Tom　Ferguson；　had　taught　him　that　discretion　was　by　far　the　better　part　of　valor。　When　Ferguson　put　his　hand　on　Jack's　thigh；　Jack　had　responded　automatically　out　of　a　California　sensibility　in　which　gays　had　been　merely　part　of　the　scenery：　'No　thanks；　mister。　I'm　strictly　A。C。'　
　　He　had　been　groped　before；　certainly…in　movie　theaters；　mostly；　but　there　had　been　the　men's…shop　clerk　in　North　Hollywood　who　had　cheerfully　offered　to　blow　him　in　a　changing　booth　（and　when　Jack　told　him　no　thanks；　the　clerk　said；　'Fine；　now　try　on　the　blue　blazer；　okay？'）。
　　These　were　annoyances　a　good…looking　twelve…year…old　boy　in　Los　Angeles　simply　learned　to　put　up　with；　the　way　a　pretty　woman　learns　to　put　up　with　being　groped　occasionally　on　the　subway。　You　eventually　find　a　way　to　cope　without　letting　it　spoil　your　whole　day。　The　deliberate　passes；　such　as　the　one　this　Ferguson　was　making；　were　less　of　a　problem　than　the　sudden　gropes　from　ambush。　They　could　simply　be　shunted　aside。
　　At　least　in　California　they　could。　Eastern　gays…especially　out　here　in　the　sticks…apparently　had　a　different　way　of　dealing　with　rejection。
　　Ferguson　had　e　to　a　screeching；　sliding　halt；　leaving　forty　yards　of　rubber　behind　his　Pontiac　and　throwing　a　cloud　of　shoulder…dust　into　the　air。
　　'Who　you　calling　D。C。？'　he　screamed。　'Who　you　calling　queer？　I'm　not　queer！　Jesus！　Give　a　kid　a　fucking　ride　and　he　calls　you　a　fucking　queer！'　
　　Jack　was　looking　at　him；　dazed。　Unprepared　for　the　sudden　stop；　he　had　thumped　his　head　a　damned　good　one　on　the　padded　dash。　Ferguson；　who　had　only　a　moment　before　been　looking　at　him　with　melting　brown　eyes；　now　looked　ready　to　kill　him。
　　'Get　out！'　Ferguson　yelled。　'You're　the　queer；　not　me！　You're　the　queer！　Get　out；　you　little　queerboy！　Get　out！　I've　got　a　wife！　I've　got　kids！　I've　probably　got　bastards　scattered　all　over　New　En